Page 48 of The Rules of Matrimony
“That you were a hero.”
Astonishment crossed his features. “Me? It’s nothing.” He seemed embarrassed by her admission and quickly stood. “My paltry efforts should never be applauded. I live a privileged life and have a duty to perform.” He dipped his head in a formal parting. “Thank you for all your help today. I should see if my mother has returned.”
He turned and left her alone with her thoughts. Thoughts that swirled in her mind like the inkwell she picked up to put away. How could a man with such a capacity for love push away the attempts from others to love him in return? She saw it first with his family and then with his friends. Why couldn’t he find room in his philanthropic heart to build a relationship with his father? And why did he shy away from the very thought of his own marriage?
She put away the last of her writing tools and lifted her handkerchief once more, rubbing her fingers over the embroidered initials. They didn’t feel as if they belonged to her. It didn’t seem likely that they ever would either. But she did feel prouder to carry the title that belonged to Ian.
Even if he could not give her love, he gave as much as he could. And for now, that was enough.
Chapter 23
Ian handed Amie a glassof warm milk—the same excuse he’d used the night before to give her a moment of privacy before bed.
“Thank you.” She did not even look at the glass before dutifully drinking it from her propped-up position in bed. Another thing that was the same as last night was her guarded position, huddled under her covers. It was not as if he hadn’t seen her in her nightdress, but he appreciated the quilt just the same. It was a firm reminder that they were in a business relationship, and they must maintain proper boundaries.
“Do you mind if I read for a few minutes?” he asked. He didn’t dare face his father again in the corridor to return to the library, so he had brought some papers with him instead.
“No, I don’t mind. I actually prefer to read for a few minutes before I go to sleep too.”
He didn’t know that about her. She did seem to be a great reader though. “What will you read?” He didn’t see any books in the room. There were few personal affects anywhere, besides the minimal items on her dressing table. The room suddenly struck him as bare and lonely.
She pointed behind him. “I have a few favorites on a shelf in the closet that I always keep with me. What about you? More work?”
His gaze trailed back to hers. “Some copied essays by a man named Samuel Romilly that were sent to me by Paul, uh, Mr. Sheldon, my barrister friend who you also met at the wedding. He thinks they might help my project.”
“The man with the russet-colored hair? How kind of him. He must be a good friend if he is taking time out of his own work to assist you.”
Ian shrugged. “I am fond of all my friends, but Paul is probably my closest, even if he did rat out our wedding to the other Rebels.”
She smiled. “A very good friend, then.”
Amusement pulled at the corners of his mouth. “You would see it that way. You know, you are more sentimental than I first took you for.”
“Am I?”
“You talk practically, but I see your attachment to people and ideas.”
She smothered another smile. “Yes, I think you’re right. Anyway, tell me about this Mr. Romilly. How will his essays help you?”
“Do you really want to know after I jawed your ear off all afternoon? It won’t bore you?”
“Not in the slightest. As you said, I ought to improve my mind if I have the opportunity. If you’re willing to share, then, isn’t this an opportunity?”
He chuckled. She had paid attention, and he ought to reward her for it. “I suppose, although this feels like a very dry bedtime story.” He took a seat on the edge of her bed and felt her legs right against him under the covers. He jumped back up. “Pardon me.”
It was her turn to laugh. “I told you that you were sensitive.”
“I wouldn’t call this sensitive. It simply doesn’t feel right.” The lines between them were already blurring, which was exactly what he’d been afraid of from the beginning. He was too comfortable with her. It was those eyes. They sent out a siren song that lured him closer and made him forget himself. “I’ll pull up a chair.”
Taking the small wooden chair with the embroidered cushion from behind the dressing table, he set it a few feet from her but close enough to her candle to still read. He lifted one of the papers, finding where he’d left off. “Romilly had the right of it. He had some brilliant criminal law reforms he presented in 1813, but they wererejected. In 1814, he got rid of the ghastly combination of hanging, drawing, and quartering. This man might be my hero.” He skimmed a little further, sharing a few lines here and there, not wanting to bore Amie, despite her saying otherwise.
After completing a few sections, he set the papers in his lap. “Well, what did you think?”
She had her long, curly hair in a braid, and she played with the ends of it. “Do you really desire my opinion?”
She had no idea. He wasanxiousto know what she thought, but he didn’t want to appear too eager. “I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”
“Very well. I think it must be like owning a horse. If someone said an ox were a better choice, more stable, and safer, you might not even care to look twice at it. You’re content with your horse. It gets you where you want faster. Tradition is hard to break free from. We have set ideas and like what we are used to.”
